There is a place that I know,
where I like sometimes to go,
on a hill near the sea
where the warm winds blow.

There are raised beds of vegetables,
carrots and peas,
little tomatoes and silky-leaved greens,
fine herbs and spices and colorful beans.

It’s dappled in sunlight and rustling leaves,
fragrant from flowers and fruit-bearing trees.
There are apples and olives, almonds and plums,
ripe for the picking when the right season comes.

The light of the morning and the late afternoon
filter through windows and fill all the rooms.
The rain, when it falls, plays most delicate tunes.

The honey wood floor sings soft on my feet
as I hum to myself and pick out my seat
on the low lazy steps by the windowsill ledge
with bread sweet with fruit from the blueberry hedge.

Then I lay in the grass under swaying bamboo
reading stories from books in a dress just as blue
as the sky between clouds forming great curlicues.

I sleep then with insect wings brushing my face,
dreaming that I only dream of this place.
A bright little house on a hill near the sea,
where living and laughter find someplace to be.